by Lee Harris
“I was born in Portland, Oregon, but I don’t remember it at all. My first clear memory is a house in San Diego, or maybe it was outside of San Diego. I was very young. I went to nursery school where I met a little Japanese girl and we were friends. I didn’t know she was Japanese till someone told me. And the next thing I remember, we were living in Phoenix, Arizona.”
“How old were you then?”
She thought. “Four. About that.”
“House or apartment?”
“An apartment. It was very nice, sunny. My mother didn’t work at first. She stayed home. Maybe she started to work when I went into kindergarten. I’m not sure.”
“Do you remember an address?”
She thought. “A street. I think it was Cactus Lane. And the number was one-twenty.” She seemed pleased to have remembered. “We lived in Two C. There was a little balcony we could sit on in the evening. It was so nice there.”
“Friends? Any names at all?”
She shook her head. “My teacher was Miss Rodriguez— I’m sure of that.”
That would have been sixteen or seventeen years ago. The teacher might still be around, but what would I learn from her? “And then?” I asked.
“I’m trying to remember where we went after that. Maybe that’s when we moved to Wisconsin.”
“That’s some weather difference.”
“I must have heard my mother complain about that a million times. She hated the summer in Phoenix, but she hated the winter in Wisconsin even more.”
“Where did you live there?”
“In a house. I had a lovely little room, all decorated for me.”
I let her ramble on, describing the room just made for a little girl. She had an excellent memory for details—what the curtains looked like, what toys were spread across the pillows. She had a favorite doll, a favorite bedtime story, a favorite television program. She went to school and found a best friend, a teacher she loved, a group of acquaintances. It sounded like a happy time in her life.
“I don’t suppose you know whether your parents owned that house or rented.”
“I have no idea. It was our house, that’s all I know.”
“You haven’t mentioned grandparents or cousins or aunts and uncles. Did you have any?”
“I don’t think so. Wait. There was a voice on the telephone. That was Grandma.”
“Didn’t she come to visit?”
“I don’t remember ever seeing her.”
“Do you know whose mother she was?”
“No idea. She was just Grandma, no last name.”
“What about the family next door in Wisconsin?”
“Mrs. Palmer,” she said quickly. “Old and gray and lived alone. People came to visit her on weekends sometimes. I don’t know where they came from but they drove a long white station wagon. I never visited when she had company.”
I asked her for the address, which she knew, and whether she could remember what work her parents did. Her father worked in an office. Her mother worked at the university, but Ariana wasn’t sure at what.
That location lasted a few years. It was her feeling that the cold winters just got to be too much for her mother and they decided to move somewhere warmer. I could see how you could deceive a child into believing such a ruse. What does a child know about parents’ real worries and real intentions? If I told Eddie we were moving to a bigger house because this one was too small for us, he would believe me.
“So you moved to a warmer clime,” I said.
“Baltimore. We had a house there and we visited Washington, D.C., a lot. My mother loved the cherry blossoms and we went every year when they were in bloom. They were so beautiful.” She smiled and stopped speaking, perhaps seeing the trees around the Tidal Basin. Then she said, “I went to a Catholic school there.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“No, but my parents thought they had good schools and it was a good place for a girl to go.”
“I taught in one,” I said, “a women’s college up the Hudson. How old were you by then?”
“About ten, I would think. Do you want the name and address of the school?”
“Yes, please.” While I might not have special access to a Catholic school, my friend Sister Joseph, the general superior of St. Stephen’s Convent, would surely be able to get information for me if I needed it. And since Ariana went to Catholic school only about a dozen years ago, there was a good chance there were still teachers there who would remember Ariana and her parents.
She wrote down the home address, the school address, and the names of some teachers she remembered. Then she went on, telling me where her parents had worked during the years they lived in Baltimore.
After Baltimore they did a stint in Boston, a city Ariana liked. She went to a Catholic high school there and then went to college in Pennsylvania. Her parents had crossed the country as she grew up and didn’t want her too far from home, not more than half a day’s drive, her mother said. That was all right with Ariana. She had Philadelphia down the road and friends from around the country.
“What made you decide to work in Chicago?” I asked.
“By that time I knew that my parents were running from someone. I had been in one place for four years and they wanted me to pick up and go somewhere else, make a new start. My father said it would make him sleep easier.”
“So you’ve been in Chicago about as long as your parents were in Oakwood.”
“Yes, just about.”
“Now I want to ask you about the names you’ve used,” I said.
She smiled a bit. “I knew this was coming.”
“I’ve learned that your parents used the names Peter and Holly Mitchell in the apartment. Your mother was Rosette Parker at the bank and the place where she had her nails done. Your father was Charles Proctor on his driver’s license and the registration of his vehicle.”
She looked troubled. “How did you find all these things out? My parents were so careful.”
“Part of it is that we knew they must be using other names because there was no car registered to Mitchell and we knew they drove one. My first break was the nail place. Your mother was identified there as Rosette Parker. I simply took it from there. A good part of it was luck,” I conceded. “An old woman in the pharmacy recognized the sketch of your mother and said her license plate started with BBB. With that kind of information, together with the type of vehicle, the police were able to find the registration.”
“That’s scary.”
“When did you become aware that your parents’ lives were not the norm?”
“In my teens. Maybe when we moved to Boston, maybe before that. I asked my mother one day because by then I knew they used more than one name. At some point, before I went to college, I asked her what was going on.”
“It must have been difficult for you,” I said.
“It was terrible. A lot of things became clear—why I never met my grandmother, why I was never left with a babysitter, why mail went to a box, not to the house, a lot of things.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“She said there had been a problem years ago and it was better if I didn’t know what it was. That someone was very angry at them and had been looking for them for several years. I can’t put a date on it, Chris. I don’t know exactly when I asked the question and I have no idea when this incident happened. My parents were very careful about what they told me. Mom wouldn’t answer my question till she and Dad had talked about it, and then the three of us sat down in the living room and discussed it. I was left feeling that I knew less when we finished than when we began. These were good, kind people who had spent their lives caring for me and loving me, and somehow they had enraged someone to the point that they had to run for their lives.”
“Did you ever get a sense of what was behind it? Money? Real estate? A terrible and tragic accident?”
“I thought of all those things. I thought of worse things. They never gave me a clue.”
“Do you know their real last name?” I asked.
“I know mine. I have my birth certificate. I’m Ariana Brinker. My mother is listed as Elaine and there’s no maiden name. My father’s first name was Ronald. Nobody called them by those names, except maybe where I went to school.”
“So I guess the first time they moved, they changed names.”
“Probably.”
“Have you ever looked into their past? Tried to find relatives?”
“Never. They made it very clear that they feared for their lives. I’ve often wondered whether I had blood relatives out in Oregon but I couldn’t put Mom and Dad in jeopardy. Or myself. What if this person wanted to kill me too?”
It was a possibility. “Ariana, the police want to find their killer or killers. Do you?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I just found out this morning that they’re dead. But yes, I want to know who did this and I want them punished.”
“What if facts turn up that indicate your parents were involved in a terrible crime?”
She leaned back and looked away. Tears fell down her cheeks. I had posed an unanswerable question. If I were asked the same thing, I would know absolutely that my parents had never committed a crime. But her situation was different. She knew there was something unspeakable in their past.
“They never hurt anyone,” she said finally, wiping the tears away with a tissue she took out of her bag. “If they stole money, it would have been to give me a safe, happy life, and I don’t believe they stole. They both worked at good jobs and they were appreciated. Whenever they left, they were given parties and gifts. They were good people. You won’t uncover the kind of crime I would be ashamed of hearing about.”
“OK.” I leaned back myself, letting her regain control.
“When you got that strange phone call, you don’t know whether you were speaking to my mother or a possible killer.”
“No idea. But there is one other thing. The woman said that day was her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, her silver anniversary.”
Ariana opened the little book in which she had found her mother’s phone number at work and skimmed some pages. She read the date off to me.
“That sounds about right. It was a Tuesday, I remember.”
“Yes, it was.” She closed the book. “That was their twenty-fifth anniversary. You may have talked to my mother.”
“Or someone who knew her well enough to know when her anniversary was.”
“I don’t know who that could be.”
“I’m going to try to find out, Ariana.”
“What about the police?”
“Let me say this. I won’t tell them about you unless the building manager tells them something first. As far as we know, he’s the only person around here who knows of your existence. But eventually I have to turn over what I find out.”
“I understand.” She dropped the little book in her bag. “I don’t know why I trust you, but I guess I have to trust someone and you’ve been nice to me. All I ask is that you tell me what you know before you call the police.”
“I will do that. Ariana, your parents were careful people. They must have told you what to do in case of their death.”
“They did. I was just thinking about that. I know they had a will written in Massachusetts when we lived there, but they did it again in New York State when they moved. I have a copy of their will but it’s back home in Chicago. The lawyer’s name and address are with the will. He may have instructions from them that I don’t have.”
“Have you read the will?”
“Just once when they gave me the copy. There’s nothing complicated about it. I think they have bonds put away somewhere. It’s all written down.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to go back and get it,” I said.
“There’s something else. I have to bury—” She stopped, overcome with grief. “My parents,” she said finally.
“You’ll have to identify yourself to claim them.”
“I hate to think of them in a morgue. I want them safe in a nice green cemetery.”
I said nothing. This was the big decision she had to make and she had to do it by herself.
“I tell you what,” she said. “Let’s give it two weeks. If we don’t make any progress, I’ll reconsider.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Now I think I should get back to the motel. I’m feeling tired and I need to rest and be alone.”
“Do you have money?”
“That’s not a problem.”
“I’ll drive you back.”
10
Ariana Brinker was staying at the local motel where Sister Joseph had once stayed when we were working on a local homicide. I suggested she rest as long as she wanted and then call me. We could all have dinner together chez Brooks and plan a strategy later on in the evening. I told her I had a five-year-old and that we might be off at the town pool later in the afternoon, but she could leave a message.
Eddie and I left for the pool. His swimming was becoming more even and less like play and I was glad we had given him lessons last summer. He remembered how to coordinate his breathing, and I was pleased to see how much he wanted to continue learning. We swam side by side in a lap lane, and he was grinning when we came to the end.
Back home, we dressed and went downstairs to get dinner together. The phone rang as I was mixing good spices into our rosemary meat loaf. Might as well use the oven while the kitchen was still cool enough. We would have enough months of grilling starting anytime soon.
“This is Ariana.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Yes. I didn’t expect to. And I’ve made a reservation to fly to Chicago tomorrow and return here on Wednesday. Is that all right with you?”
“It’s fine. I assume you’re going to pick up the will and come right back.”
“Yes. And get some more clothes. I’ll need to talk to the lawyer when I get back. I’m sure the name and address are with the will. I expect the lawyer has no idea my parents are dead.”
“Right. You and I are the only two people at this point who know their real names.”
I told her I would pick her up in twenty minutes. Then I let Eddie know we were having company for dinner. “Her name is Ariana,” I said.
“Is she your friend?”
“She’s a young lady I just met. She’s very nice, honey. I think you’ll like her. She works in a bookstore.”
That provoked his interest. He started to tell me about all the books he needed.
“Maybe we’ll go to our bookstore when school is out. You’ll need some books to read over the summer.” He wasn’t exactly reading yet, but he knew what I meant.
I explained to Ariana that my husband was a police lieutenant in New York City. She tensed as I said it, but I assured her that since this case was out of his jurisdiction, he would not interfere. And he would be helpful if there was information we were not privy to as private citizens.
Ariana and Eddie seemed charmed by each other. I heard laughter from the family room as I set the table. Jack came home, having been forewarned by me. He shook hands with Ariana and expressed his condolences. She said a soft “Thank you” and brushed away welling tears.
When Eddie was tucked away, we sat in the family room with coffee and a fruit pie I had picked up at the bakery after our swim. My Jewish friend Melanie told me that Jews offer sweets to the bereaved to ease their sorrow. That has stuck with me, sounding like a reasonable response to the anguish of loss.
“Jack,” I said after we had chatted for a while, “Ariana and her parents lived in a number of locations around the country. And she was born in Portland, Oregon. We have some family names but no addresses. Is there a way we can find the phone numbers of these people on the Internet?”
“Boy,” he said, “get them a computer and suddenly they’re experts in tracking down missing people.”
Ariana smiled. “Did you just get a computer?”
“At
the end of last year,” I said. “It had never occurred to me but Jack thought we should have one, especially since Eddie is starting to read and everyone he knows has one.”
Jack said, “I’ll check with a guy at work tomorrow— he’s more computer literate than I am—and see how to proceed. It’s a good idea. If you have your parents’ names, you might find people with the same last name in Portland or nearby.”
“And I remember people who lived near us in a couple of places. If they’re still alive, we can talk to them.”
“Sounds like a good way to start,” Jack said. “But you should certainly talk to the lawyer who has the original of your parents’ will. They may have added or subtracted something recently without letting you know. Chris solved a case not long ago where that happened. And the lawyer may have information in his notes or may recollect something that could be helpful. For all we know, your parents may have told him who was looking for them.”
Ariana leaned forward. “I hadn’t thought of that. And he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone if they were his clients.”
“Right.”
Her eyes were bright. “I really have to talk to him. The sooner I get that will, the better I’ll feel.”
I asked her if her copy of the will was in a safe place.
“In a safe-deposit box in a bank. No one besides me has access to it.”
“That’s good.”
“I have some information on the second autopsy,” Jack said. “Joe Fox called after you did.”
“Second autopsy?” Ariana seemed surprised.
“They couldn’t determine the cause of your mother’s death in the first one so they got a hotshot ME to come out from the city. His name’s Byron Durham and we’ve been known to refer to him as Lord Byron.”
I laughed. “He must be something.”
“He is.” Jack turned to Ariana. “If you don’t want to hear about this, I’ll keep quiet.”
“I have to hear. I have to know everything.”
“It looks as though your mother was chloroformed.”
“How do they know that?” I asked.
“Chloroform leaves chemical burns in the nose, mouth, and windpipe and some traces in the lungs if enough tissue is there. It’s not easy to detect, which is probably why it was missed by the first ME, who, I’m told, is new to the job. The analysis by Dr. Durham says the chloroform was administered with a pad, sponge, or rag, and he sees the burns inside the nose and mouth.”